Comfort in Pain
by MissDiRed
Summary: (Part of Little Touch series) "Perhaps he was a killing machine, and maybe a professional. But she knew one thing for certain: he truly was a bloody idiot." (2015 Hitman: Agent 47 Post-Movie) Beta Read by TheArgentMoon.


"I told you to stop moving, damn it!"

The soft, not really ill-meaning hiss cuts through the air. It's quiet, and maybe even soft, but it makes neither the cuts on his face nor the gunshot wound on the back of his arm hurt less. If it does something, it, in fact, makes them hurt more. But he only winces and tries not to move, which isn't easy. He was designed to dim his feelings, but not pain. He feels pain like anyone else, really. And as much as anyone else, he hates it and his body naturally jerks away from it.

But the bullet can't really be removed; the wound can't be cleaned and closed without causing him more pain, can it? Of course not. So he tries to endure. He has to. She tries to be gentle, precise, but it still hurts. The bullet went deep. It isn't dangerous or damaging, but it's still deep and painful.

"I'm trying to." Yes, he's in pain, yet his voice still sounds as if he feels absolutely nothing. It's only sometimes that it doesn't sound like that, and now is definitely not one of those times.

Despite her only having known him for a very short amount of time, Katia is somewhat used to his emotionless voice. She only sighs quietly, wiping more blood from the wound in a delicate manner and grabbing the tweezers with every intention of finally taking the goddamn bullet out this time. She digs them as gently as she can into the wound. If she focuses hard enough, she can be very precise — something that she discovered not even ten minutes ago. She focuses on the dark gash, on getting the metal out, instead of the muffled hiss escaping through teeth gritted so hard she thinks that she hears cracking. Instead of concentrating on the bed frame they were sitting on crack under the force of his hands tightly clenching the wood, she focuses on the wound. Finally, finally, she gets the bullet out, removing it fairly swiftly but also gently.

She can hear a relieved gasp once the missile clangs onto the metal plate she prepared for it. She isn't sure whether it was she or he that made the sound.

It's all because that professional – or idiot, or maybe professional idiot – decided to take a shot meant for her instead of either pulling or pushing her out of the way. On the other hand, it was also her carelessness (just a tiny bit) that got her in the line of that shot. Whatever the case, it doesn't change the fact that if he had enough time to cover her with himself, he had more than enough time to tug her towards him.

Killing machine? Yes. Professional? Perhaps. Idiot? Totally.

That's when she realizes that she actually feels bad that he was hit instead of her. Shit.

"Watch out with that bed; I don't feel like pulling splinters out of your palms," Katia says a bit too emotionlessly than she planned to, than she should. It's his company, she keeps saying herself. She is starting to mimic his demeanor. As she cleans his wound, she considers if she should just wrap it as it is, or if she should sew it closed. She's decent at sewing, but only when it comes to clothing. She had sewn a leather jacket once, but it was dead, fake skin, not live human tissue.

47 hums quietly in response, and Katia winces. She doesn't feel like calling him '47,' but does she really have a choice? It isn't like he has another name that she can call him by. But that isn't even a name; it's a number. It's a number that objectifies him in a way, and she hates it. Even though her own name was derived from a number, it's still a proper name. Katia von Dees, Agent 90. And him? He's just Agent 47.

"You better sew it closed," 47 says, making her look up at the back of his head — at the goddamn barcode 'tattooed' on it — in surprise. She tilts her head, twisting her lips in disbelief for a while.

"You sure you want me do this? I mean, I've never sewn anything living, moving and… You know. You're not my old leather jacket," she says, uncertain. She isn't sure that she can do it. She isn't sure that he can endure it. She isn't sure of anything at the moment, to be honest.

"If you don't, it will be worse than if you did," he says, and Katia can't stop a snort from escaping her throat. It breaks into a short, quiet giggle.

"I believe you trust my abilities a bit too much on that matter," she admits, grabbing the needle anyway.

This is going to be… 'Fun.'

And it is in a weird, sadistic way, when every pained sound he emits — sounds that he can't manage to suppress —makes her giggle with that awfully blissful feeling some people tend to experience. When one's lips just bend into a smile instinctively when there's someone around that's either in misery, pain, or whatever else that could be wrong.

She shouldn't be feeling this, but she held a gun — his own gun — to his head, didn't she? And in the second that she did, she really wanted to shoot. With her hand on her heart, she did. But then she realized that he wasn't really responsible for her father's death and that sacrifices are, sometimes, necessary.

And then they were attacked by 47's clone. 47 called him 48, which perhaps means only one version better. Katia didn't know how Agents work, but she truly didn't expect them to be clones. She expected them to be more like kidnapped children who were all genetically modified in early childhood, but were still unique. Granted, she knows next to nothing of Agents even though she is one. In theory.

That guy wasn't 48 to her. He was just a clone. A mockery of a familiar face, of the only face that has ever been truly welcoming to her throughout her whole life. A mockery of the face that means safety, of those emotionless eyes slowly igniting with something a bit more human. A mockery of 47, in a way, to her. It was hypocritical, she knew, but she refused to acknowledge 48.

He ended up with a hole between his empty eyes, anyway. Much more challenging than those puny guards, but much less than what Katia had prepared herself for. In the end, she had to handle him in hand-to-hand combat. She had no idea that she could fight like that, to be honest; perhaps watching 47 and John fight wasn't futile after all. It all happened because someone stupid with a certain gunshot wound had been too slow to shoot. But she managed in the end, somehow, left only with that bruise on the left side of her jaw that was itching painfully and already deep, dark purple.

The wound she just finished sewing is bruised a bit, too, though the ripped skin makes them look faint. Even with the stitches on, they don't seem that bad.

"You with me still?" Katia doesn't really speak that loudly, but her voice is still clear and steady. "Men tend not to be as durable as women when it comes to pain."

"If you're asking if I fainted, I did not," he says. His voice is weak, as if he's just a step from losing consciousness. And then, he actually adds, "not yet, at least."

"Well, the worst's behind us now." Katia just shrugs, cleaning the closed wound once more and then covering it with gauze she keeps in place with a bit of plaster. "Turn around. I need to disinfect the cuts on your face, too." She speaks again, her voice somewhat demanding. He obeys without a word, bending towards her as much as his freshly-closed wound allows him to.

As she gently washes the deeper and shallower cuts with a cloth soaked in disinfectants, he just keeps staring at her face. His gaze is unmoving. His blue, very, very dark blue eyes — like the sky during a storm, maybe — are almost emotionless, but glint with curiosity. She sees the little glimpse of feeling, and she allows him to keep staring. She's staring in a way, too, after all. Mostly at his wounds, but still staring.

"Fucking John that most likely isn't even named John." Katia finds herself sighing as she finishes, putting the cloth away and sitting on the bed more casually, facing the man sitting at her side. Fuck John, yes, but fuck her naivety, too. She almost trusted that guy. Almost…

For someone with enhanced surviving skills, she is way too naïve and trusting, isn't she? With John, all it took for her to trust him was the threat of some guy who was supposedly trying to kill her. In the end, 47 wasn't even doing that; he was only trying to get to her. 'John' was the one he was trying to kill. And then, after meeting said guy that tried — though not seriously — to kill her, she just trusted him. Maybe it was because there was some sort of familiarity in him, some understanding. Perhaps, Katia guesses, after years and years of running from nothing, she just needed someone to trust so desperately that she wasn't going to be picky. She probably thought that a genetically engineered killing machine would do just fine.

She leans onto his shoulder, gently. She doesn't want to scare him. She doubts that he has much human contact other than hand-to-hand combat. And indeed, he tenses and almost jerks away. Almost. He relaxes after a while. If Katia didn't know any better, she would say that he's actually leaning into the touch.

They just sit there in the room, comforting silence surrounding them. She doubts that she needs anything else at the moment. Her body aches from the bruises on her jaw, but also on her legs from constant running, and the wound on her arm that's still not exactly closed — why 47 decided to play that weird game of marking, she doesn't understand at all. Her whole body is sore. And he's no exception, she's sure. But sitting there, together in silence, is comforting.

They are, in fact, the same; she won't deny it.

He knows that this is dangerous. They shouldn't just sit and do nothing. It's dangerous and could get them both killed. But he doesn't care. He is no longer an assassin. He is now a target himself, and so is she. And they will manage together. They are both strong. They will manage because he's choosing to do so. He's choosing to believe, and to follow his own path this time.

But for now he just sits, tired and sore, allowing Katia to lay her head on his shoulder and unknowingly leaning into the touch himself. He never knew that he needed this type of comfort before.

He knows that, unlike the Agency, Katia von Dees will not use him as a mere tool and dispose of him when he is no longer of any use to her.

He knows that Katia von Dees sees him as a human being.


End file.
